


Waiting for rain

by 35391291



Series: Guadalupana [3]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Gen, Magical Realism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sentient Nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 01:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10629300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35391291/pseuds/35391291
Summary: This is it, this is the prayer. This is his truth.One day, the waiting will be over. For now, this has to be enough.





	

_There's a place inside me where nothing will grow_  
_There's an arid plot lying fallow_  
_I'm waiting for life; I'm waiting for rain_  
_But it looks like a desert and it feels like pain_

\- Theo Hakola: Waiting for rain.

*

There's a place inside him where nothing will grow. He is broken and empty, and all that's left is the desert. Nothing but thirst and hunger and pain. He feels all these years trembling over him, like a heartbeat. His wounds are old but still feel raw, as if they will never close. He needs something to offer. To give and give and give until it hurts, until he becomes the splinters and the thorns. But this foolish fire in his heart is part ghost, part nightmare. It won't stop, it won't let him be. And he longs for something. He wants it badly enough to gamble and beg and pray. To go out towards the open road, to go out and find it. No matter how long it takes, or where it leads. No matter if it's real or not. He can wait.

And he crosses himself and kisses his fingers and touches his heart. This is it, this is the prayer. This is his truth. And the world knows that he doesn't want to keep running. It is listening. And the wind blows from the south, from home, and it sounds like a question. _Little brother, are your hands still tender? Is your heart still gentle?_ But he doesn't want to answer. Maybe, just maybe, he can go back.

But he doesn't want to lie.

He once had copper and gold and moonlight at his fingertips. And he once had something small and precious like a jewel, something that looked and felt like a dream. But he lost it all, he lost it. And his little sky is gone, and it hurts. The alcohol helps, but then it makes it sting. He forgets, until the memory comes back in the middle of the night, like a missing limb. Like black water, like that empty space within him that won't leave, no matter how much he drinks. He might be forgotten. He can't forget.

And who hands him the bottle now? And who carries his heart? He doesn't remember. There is no hand over it, not anymore. And it's cold without it. And the night is different, and the sky is different. He breathes it in, like smoke. It might be only a dream. Or it might be something else. But there is something calling him, and he doesn't want it to stop. He doesn't want to be left alone.

 _And what are you good for now, little brother?_ He doesn't know. He used to have a name, but he has misplaced it somehow. He could have sworn he left it in the heart of the hill, in the mouth of the angel. But he is not sure, it was so long ago. The absence burns in his chest, and he needs it, and he doesn't know how to get it back. But one day, one day, he will. And then, he will find the words. He will stop running. And he will tell that story, about how the world changed around him, and changed him, and changed his idea of home.

And his tears touch the earth, and he is small and humble and empty. And he isn't ashamed. The wind carries him, and he goes back up to the top of the hill, and he yells his insides out, and he becomes a desperate prayer. _Don't forget me, don't let go. I'm here, I'm still here._ So that he won't fade away. So that one day he might be enough.

The sky comes back, and it's the same sky he knew. And maybe, the sacred heart of the earth still knows his name. It knows that he is nothing but tender arms and feather and tail and wing. And that's good enough. If he can't walk any longer, it will carry him. And it will bring him back, back from the ashes and the dark.

And one day, the waiting will be over. And the years will fade, they will flood his heart again and set it in place. The rain will wash away all the wounds. And he will remember, he will have everything he longs for. He will feel it, closer and closer. Tumbling out of his hands like a bird, like a prayer, like the meaning of love. Impossible, but still making perfect sense. Like treasure lights, like those first roses in the story. In the desert, in the middle of winter.


End file.
